Splinter Cell: Devil's Triangle
by War-Goddess
Summary: There's a lot more going on in the world than meets the eye. It's up to Sam Fisher to check things out. And what he finds has a profound effect on many things, including himself.
1. Chapter I

Disclaimer: I own my own copy of the game, but I don't own the copyrights and all that. Just having fun with the characters. Er, please be somewhat kind – constructive crit is appreciated but flaming is just utterly pointless, k? It's still being proofread and worked on, but I just wanted some feedback on whether I should continue and such. I have a few chapters done . . . It's set a year after Pandora Tomorrow and it COULD have a few spoilers; then again, you probably wouldn't understand the spoilers until you've already beaten the game, so that's somewhat moot. Originally this was written for SC fans only, but I figured, what the hell, reach a larger audience, get more feedback, make the story better. Umm, enjoy?

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**Chapter I**

It was not the safest place for him to be. Long grass, in a desperate need of mowing, rustled along with the far-off murmurs of many men, creating a cover of sound. But the sun was still up, and somehow he had to stay in the shadows, avoid detection and make his way into the mansion. First though, he would have to _find_ some shadows to hide in. Green eyes scanning the area he knew that while this mission would be short, it would be rather difficult. Even if no one would be able to hear his careful step, they sure as hell would see him. Stuck in his kneel beside a grand old tree, its bark gnarled and providing some measure of cover, he studied the home. It was red brick with white trim, almost cliché, with large windows; the building itself was well kept, although all around it gave the impression of being decrepit. The black iron gate was nearly covered in yellowing grass; a path was stomped through the field that substituted for a front yard, passing through a half-broken gate (courtesy the fence) up to the tiny pristine porch.

Sam Fisher wondered what sort of people would live here. Even he couldn't figure out the duality of this place. Was the strangeness itself enough to keep the curious or lost wanderers away? Who knew what traps lay in wait in the grass . . . Which reminded him, what traps _were_ there? Once more his gaze swept the land before him and seeing nothing, his thermal vision was quickly flicked down. Another study of the ground told him there weren't any mines around. Blinking as his vision switched from artificial blue and green to normalcy, he tried to pick up on what could be there. Then again, it could have been merely the fact that it was the only mansion for miles so there was no point to keep it looking fresh and nice. Also, only this terrorist group used it - if one could even call them that - who obviously had no interest in gardening. It was a meeting place and the beauty was kept for the inside, not out. Or at least he hoped that the long grasses weren't functional.

Black outfits and hot days, Fisher was really starting to find, were not working out that well. Sure, he lived on the coast, he was used to sunlight, but this was a bit extreme. Working, in broad daylight, in full SIGINT ninja uniform, near the equator: definitely not his idea of a good time, but then again, what was?

Creeping forward, he thought it might be possible to use the grass as his cover. As long as no one was searching the so-called lawn, he should make it to the mansion without being detected. It would be slow, steady and definitely sweaty work, but no one said Third Echelon was glamorous. Although that old fence was worrying him. It seemed that it would run the full course of the house. So how could he get over it without alerting anyone? Hope that no one was looking out the window at that exact moment? He hated working on chance, although often that was the difference between life and death. Still, he liked to _try_ and keep everything under control. There were enough people, according to recent intelligence, inside that mansion at any given time for a window to always have someone looking out it.

Some party. Unfortunately for them, he was one hell of a party crasher. Moving on his belly, crawling along, dragging himself through the grass, he attempted to squirm between the massive blades. It wouldn't do well for someone to see him in the stretch of land because he was creating a line of crushed grass as he went. Luckily, no one noticed him as he made it to the fence, sweat dripping off his face. He would really have to speak to Lambert about getting something that breathed a bit better. Rolling onto his back, he gazed up at the sky, studying the sun. Another hour or so and dusk would begin. If he went to the house and waited, he would have a better chance of successfully completing his mission if darkness had begun to fall. Turning back over onto his stomach, Fisher slowly got up onto his knees. Peering out to the house and seeing nothing that would inform him that they had been alerted to his presence, he went about examining the fence. It didn't take him long to realise that he could squeeze through the bars of the fence, as long as he went carefully. As he moved forward, something pricked in the back of his mind, a memory, and he knew what he had picked up in that short time was invaluable. His highly trained instinct told him to turn on the thermal once more, just to be sure. Better to be paranoid once than caught the nine other times. If it had been the place to, a smile would have crept to his lips. Instead the blue and green world filled his vision once more, and booby traps came to light. Sam was stunned. He had waded through fields of dangerous explosives before, but this was beyond anything he had ever encountered. Usually there was some way past anything that was thrown at him. This, however . . . It seemed that these people, true terrorists or not, were obsessed with keeping themselves safe. Row upon row of mines, motion sensors, trip mines . . . there was no way he could make it through without getting a leg blown off. If the only way to the house was up the path, he was in deeper water than he had first imagined.

Flicking the vision back up, Fisher sought out a rock, his eyes unfocused on one of the open windows along the side of the house, deep in thought. Perhaps if he made a big enough distraction - a few explosions could do the trick - it would give him enough time to make it to the door, along the established path. His arm came back, then went up in an arc, as if he were throwing a grenade. The explosion rumbled the ground as dirt and grass was thrown through the air, one detonation setting others off as well. He saw someone hanging out a window, then the shadows of more people behind her.

"What do you think that was?" one muttered in English as the woman out the window turned, facing back into the room and snapped back to someone in French.

Once finished her intelligible dialogue, she leaned back out the window, scanning the area. She said slowly with a pronounced sneer, "Probably another squirrel." For some reason that produced much laughter, an almost scary laughter. The debris had begun to settle back down. Sam weighed his options in a split second. Either blow up more lawn and raise suspicion (although clear a path for himself) or run to the door, right now, and pray that he could get his fifth freedom in less than a minute. The chance for the latter was slim, but the first choice seemed just as viable. Taking a deep breath, he went to the path, and still in his crouch, ran head-long for the door, rolling the last few metres. Spinning about quickly and slamming his back against the wall, he regulated his breathing, eyes wide as he took everything in, ears ready for any warning sound. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered why he had wanted to get back into the field and pass up all the extra time he had to spend with Sarah. Things had been good before Third Echelon, although teaching the new CIA brats the ropes could be tiring and frustrating. No, the field had been a break; but some things were sacrificed. Like his daughter.

There were obviously stairs near the front door, because he heard someone storming down them; it sounded like a pissed off woman and he wondered how many times he had heard his own child doing that after a fight on the phone with a friend. Men stepped heavily and shouted; women tried to break the stairs and screamed. Listening harder, he was nearly sure it was a woman, and from the muffled sounds around her, it sounded like her lackeys. For some reason women almost always ruled in large opulent mansions. He had no idea where or when the terrorist rulebook had been written, but there had to be one. Every time a woman was in charge of something she had a mansion, gorgeous but unsuitable clothes, and stupid men parading about her. She was almost always the cover for her male counterpart, the head of a real terrorist organisation, but then at the last moment the woman always managed to be the superior powerful one.

He knew no movies portrayed anything about spy life or the government roles in pretty much anything correctly, except for that one detail: what female overlords were like. Perhaps they had no fear of over-charging their credit cards. What were creditors going to do? Come knocking? With a sigh, he went for his gun. Perhaps this would be a lot easier than he had first considered: a pseudo-terrorist group run by a spoiled woman was easier than anything else he had been up against in his years in the NSA. Why were his talents being wasted and nearly neutralised on this crap?

"Lambert," he grumbled, "why am I bothering with this?"

His boss was short. "Just do your work, Fisher."

Scowling, Sam reached for his optical cable and pushed it under the door. Spinning it, he couldn't see anyone in the main hall - and he had been right, the main staircase was right before him. Taking it back, he went for the doorknob and turned slowly. It was unlocked; then again, who else other than friendlies would these people be expecting? Pushing it open, he shot out all the lights he could see and rolled into a corner. Squatting, he examined the room with the barrel of his gun, and found nothing. Back to the wall, he edged along to an opening in the house and looked around the corner. It was a long hallway, ending with a small table, a highly decorated vase atop it, filled with fake silk flowers. SWAT turning, he gave the hall another look, then went to the other side of the room. The front hall was symmetrical, and it seemed the mansion was as well. This hall looked exactly the same. Aiming up, he blew out the light. On went his night vision. But where everyone had gone, he had no idea.

The basement. He didn't know why he thought of it, but he had. Could they all be in the basement? Would it just take a few gas grenades to incapacitate a whole terrorist cell? That would be nearing pathetic, but it would make his life a lot easier. Sneaking back across the hall, he heard light footsteps on some stairs behind him. There was no one on the main staircase but didn't these places usually have servant stairs? Eyes darting from one hall to the other, he waited, not wanting to move until he knew where his enemy was coming from. His left. A man walked out into the corridor, then stopped short, raising his weapon. He looked around, then began walking slowly, obviously alarmed by the lack of lights. Sam suddenly realised the possibility of being silhouetted against the light of the hall on his right. Taking a few slow steps back, he felt a bit better about his position. Waiting until the man crossed the threshold into the main hall, Fisher then began to move with intent. Toeing around the man, he followed him at half-a-pace faster. Nearing the other hall, he stood and his arm was around the other's throat in a second. First a choking sound issued, then Sam clamped his free hand over the man's mouth.

"Now," Fisher said lowly, "you're going to answer a few questions of mine. Or else."

The man's eyes looked wildly around. He had been so close to the safe light.

"I'm going to take my hand off your mouth. If you shout for help, I'll make sure you never speak again. Or breathe."

The threat seemed to work. Very nearly audibly gulping, the man nodded vehemently. He understood. After all, he was a nobody; he didn't know anything about the mistress or agendas or plans.

"Good." Fisher took his hand away slowly, ready to return, just in case. When no cries came, he took his gun and held it to the man's head. "Where is everybody?"

That information he did know. But could he tell this man, who obviously had a presence, but seemed invisible? How dangerous could someone like this be; it would put everyone in jeopardy. That was something he could not do.

The silencer dug into the man's temple when he was mute for too long. "Tell me," Sam growled, becoming impatient. He wanted this over with.

He didn't like the feel of the metal straining his skin. It would be even worse to have a bullet in his brain. "Th-the mistress left. Th-through the b-back."

"Where is everybody?" His voice was becoming rougher, nearly spitting his words out. Repeating himself was something he _did not _enjoy.

"Nearly everyone's in the basement – or at least, they were." The man whimpered, his knees starting to go weak. Fisher's arm was the only thing really keeping him up. "A few people are upstairs, but that's it, I swear."

"Do people live here, or is it just a meeting place?" The intelligence had been somewhat sketchy on this point.

"S-some l-live here," the man gasped, slumping further in Fisher's grasp, being a man of little backbone. Raising his gun, Sam knocked him out, figuring that was the most he would get out of the coward. Dragging the body to the corner he had previously occupied, he spoke to Lambert.

"What's the point of hiring guards like this?" he wondered, sounding nearly dumbfounded.

Lambert's reply was cool to the untrained ear, "Usually men with big guns look and feel scary, no matter how much of a pussycat they really are."

"Point well taken," Fisher said with a snicker, voice near a banter. "So where's your big gun, Lambert?"

"Just get the mission done, Fisher." With that, Lambert was off and waiting for a completion. Sam looked around the darkened room and started his way up the stairs. For some reason the government wanted information on this "Mistress" person. The group seemed so childish and useless he wondered what all the curiosity was about. But perhaps it was the lack of information that made everyone edgy. A group so illprepared and weak should have been easy pickings, yet nothing was documented. So now was the time to document; but the main thing Echelon was wondering was how "Mistress" had avoided detection. No one had ever seen her (had she been that woman hanging out the window?) and no one could figure out why. Usually terrorists wanted their faces splashed across screens and posters and billboards so they could proclaim their anti-american, anti-west message. Yet she was silent, what must have been an offshoot of a larger terrorist group (too extreme for the extremists?), surrounded by weaklings it seemed, yet never found out. What he already had was the most anyone had ever got. Probably because previous operatives ended their budding careers by blowing themselves up on the lawn.

Stepping slowly up the staircase, Fisher kept swivelling his head around, to try and see if anyone was coming. He zoomed his vision ahead as he turned on the stairs, looking to the upper hall. He saw no one and hustled through the glow of intact lights, briefly wondering how much these people liked red, as the carpets and upper halves of the walls were all said colour. The lower part of the walls were dark panelling, matching the railings he was walking past. Up at the top of the stairs, in the doorway between hallways, he was in enough darkness to stay inconspicuous. He took this opportunity to look around and to above all listen. First one had to listen for footsteps. Then to the actual stepping. That could tell you where the person belonging to the disembodied footsteps was going, what they were doing and what they were going to do; he remembered those lessons. At first he had scoffed, but when it was demonstrated, then learned, he believed. And it was an invaluable tool to have and it had saved his life on many occasions, he was sure. If you moved too soon, guards were alert and would spot you earlier. Listening to how they walked would tell you when they were more at ease and thought it had just been their imaginations.

He was like a ghost; people suspected he was there, but until they were knocked out cold, they had no hard evidence.

It would be deliberate work having to search every room for the information he needed and not be caught. He needed her computer so Grim could get all the information the NSA needed out of it. Contacts, journals, day planner; people's lives were on their computers and they could get a wealth of information even from the most strictly guarded system. Sticking close to the wall, Fisher ran across the brighter patches of carpet to slightly darker shadows as he deliberated shooting out the lights. Coming to the end of the hall, he looked around the corner and saw a back. It was another man, wearing what looked like an army jacket. His blonde hair was cropped short, his weapon firmly gripped in pale hands. In three successive shots Sam had the lights around himself out; he was safe in darkness. He could almost see the guard's ears perk up. His line of view was clear, and raising his gun, his shot was perfect. One bullet would put this guy out forever. But he was supposed to avoid killing anyone until things were sorted out. Lowering his weapon slowly, he holstered it and crept back, watching with wary eyes. He timed each movement, keeping it with the guards, making sure they were evenly spaced. When the blonde was closer, trying to see into the dark spot that had suddenly appeared, Sam lunged. For the guard, there was nothing but curious darkness, pain, then ever-reaching black. With a heavy thump, the lifeless body hit the ground. Wincing at the noise and glancing about, Fisher quickly grabbed the body and slung it over his shoulders. Taking his optical cable out, he checked under closest door and saw the room was empty, and had only one door: and that was the one he was looking under. Slowly, he creaked the door open, gritting his teeth as if it would ward off the extra sound he did not need. A shaft of light split the dark patch he had created with three carefully placed bullets; then he swung the door open. It went silently to the wall, whereupon it knocked gently. Shooting out the light, he shoved the body into a nook where a tiny closet had once been and crept back out. That room had only had a photocopier, a worn medium-brown desk and a half-broken chair. The area was much more dilapidated than the rest of the house. Perhaps that was the fault of the guards.

Checking under a few more doors, it all looked much the same. As he made his way across the home, he found that the quality of the rooms improved, as did their furnishings. It must have been the difference of male-guards to woman-leader. At the end of a twisting hallway, he found a massive room, decorated in red and white. There was a bathroom en suite, but other than that, a bed, a dresser and Victorian vanity, there was nothing. In other words, no computer. Creeping back out of the unlit room, he had the feeling that a study had to be around somewhere. It wouldn't do for someone living here to not have a separate room for a computer. Logic dictated it must be near-by.

There were footsteps coming from down the hall. The door behind him was still open and shuffling back, he closed it softly, keeping himself inside. His optic cable was slipped underneath in a flash so he could see what was going on. Two men rounded a corner and began down the hall. Fisher hoped they would pass him and not try to open the door. That might prove to be a bit awkward and at least a little deadly.

" . . . Got it out? Why?" one asked with a yawn and a stretch, only the last part of his sentence audible to Fisher.

"Man, you need more sleep."

"Helper had me on guard since yesterday morning."

"That's what I'm saying man." The guard, much like the one Sam had dealt with moments beforehand, had blonde hair, and was studying his partner critically. "She's too tough on us."

"You know how protective she is of the Mistress."

Blonde two grunted at this. He was proud of young "Helper", the mistress's underling and, as the name said, helper. She was a great fighter and true to the cause. And she was always one step ahead, although they weren't too sure what she was ahead of. Sometimes though, she could be a bit extreme and push the men a tad hard.

"But why would she take it?" The tired guard, who had brown hair with bright red streaks and heavy eyebrows, raked a hand through his hair. Then he rubbed his doleful eyes and yawned again.

"She seemed to think that it was important enough to take along. Plus, why leave it here when Mistress was going to camp? She'd need it, right?"

"A computer in the middle of nowhere?"

The blonde guard shrugged and gave him a look. "They have electricity out there Jim," he responded with a slightly condescending tone.

"I know, I know . . . hey, where's Theo?"

By this time, Fisher was no longer paying attention. Heading towards the window, hand to his ear, he began to mutter.

"The computer isn't here."

"What." Lambert's voice was clear in his head, and Fisher knew he was not impressed.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Sam repeated: "The computer. It isn't here."

"Well, where the hell is it?!" Irving Lambert snapped. But before Sam could get a word in, his boss was speaking again. "New mission objective Fisher." He paused for a moment, typing out information at his end. "Find out where the computer is. Details on your OPSAT." And Lambert was gone.

Looking down at his inner arm, Fisher noted his instructions. Anything lethal would result in mission failure. If anyone even suspected he was there, the mission was over and he would be pulled out. Actually, he would have to find his own way out and a new job. Probably a new identity as well. Finally, he could not leave until they knew exactly where the computer had run off. The only information Fisher had was something about a camp.

Staring mournfully at the window he had almost escaped out of, Sam turned back to the door, leading back into the mansion. Now he had to hunt down those two guards, somehow separate them and get at least one of them to talk. Supporting himself on his knee, Fisher stared blankly at the door before him. How could he get them to split up . . . A diversion camera could do the trick. They'd search the halls alone to cover more ground and he could nab one. But if one found the camera, he'd have to knock him out – though as long as the other stayed awake, he was fine. What if he had no choice, though, and had to knock him out too? Well, they couldn't be the only two guards who knew what this camp was, so he'd do it that way. He'd take his semi-weighed chances; that's what his job was about, anyhow.

Opening the door slightly, he loaded a diversion camera and aimed his SC-20K into the darkest area he could find. Firing it, he looked to his arm and studied the view he had. Nothing much. The guards must have wandered further down the hall. Clicking on "whistle" he waited, hoping at least one of the guards would hear and come running. Still nothing. With skill borne of years in the business, Sam slipped out the door and closed it, reached over and flicked off the lamp sitting on a small table. What was it with rich people and lit paintings on the walls, or with lamps on indiscriminate tiny tables throughout hallways? Not bothering to try and figure it out, Sam waited, listened, then made a run for it. You couldn't wait for the right time because that time was too late. You had to _make_ the right time, take your chances and follow your gut. Because that was the only was to survive this business. The more you worried about being shot and being imperfect, the more you were shot and imperfect. Worrying left less time for thinking, and without thinking, you couldn't analyse the situation. Without that, you deserved a bullet.

Scooping up his camera from the corner, he returned it to his gun and shot it down the next hall, into the corner there. Glancing at his arm he could see the guards coming back. He made the camera whistle and he could see the guards tense up and look furtively around. Their weapons were clenched in white-knuckled hands as they tried to find the source of the sound.

"It sounded like it was from around here," Jim said, looking frantically from one hall to another.

"You look down here, I'll cover this area. Whatever it was, or whoever, it can't be far."

Jim nodded resolutely. Fisher almost felt bad for the kid, for it was now that he realised just how young some of these terrorists were. He never really questioned his killing, but seeing this young man made Sam realise that the boy was human too. But it made sense that Jim was young caught up in the glamour of rebellion, not quite understanding just what he was doing. But people choose their sides (an argument Fisher used to have frequently) and he had his job to do, no matter the age of his mark.

He waited in his corner, pressing himself firmly to the wall as to avoid detection until it was too late. Sam realised now he should have guessed the age of this guard by the fact that he had those bright red streaks. Sarah's friends had done things like that. So had some of the brats he had taught in the CIA. Shoving aside any sympathy for this fellow any regret at having to hurt him, he waited until Jim was just past him. Lifting up slightly, pushing away from the wall, he followed the brown and red-haired guard, standing at the last moment. Reaching out, his arm was around the young man's throat, his gun to his head.

"I seem to be lost and need directions," Fisher said in his low cadence.

"Wha-?"

"I talk. You listen." The guard whimpered and the gun cocked, to push the point. "I have a friend that just went to camp. You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you." Much more of a statement, as opposed to a question.

"I-I . . ."

Sam tightened his grip and growled, "Where is it?"

"The-the camp?"

"No, the bathroom." Giving him a squeeze to put a bit more fear into him, he snarled, "Of course the camp."

Jim made a slight choking sound as his trachea started to buckle under the flexing of Sam's muscles. He knew he had no choice and he just hoped that Helper would forgive him his trespass. The Mistress would never know he had betrayed their camp, but Helper would. She always knew. "It's in Montreal . . ." he trailed off.

"Montreal? Canada?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I don't know!" His voice took on a frantic note. "I don't know," he wheezed as his brain started to lose oxygen, "and if you don't let me go, I'll –"

"Scream?" Sam finished, sounding slightly humoured. "Right." With that, he knocked Jim out, carefully guiding his body to the floor. As he was about to raise the body to his shoulders, he heard someone coming down the hall. The little exchange had taken longer than he had thought.

Speaking as quietly as possible, he asked Lambert, "How tight are my lethal force restraints?"

"Air."

That was all Fisher needed to hear to know how limited he was. Quickly loading a sticky-shocker he slid effortlessly into a shadow and waited. The other blonde guard, boots thumping confidently on the carpet, some of the sound absorbed by the thick material, came around the corner, looking haughty. He must have been happy with the fact that he had found nothing, like he had just done a good job of something. Then he saw his comerade's prostrate body. Doing a double-take, his hand went for his utility belt, where his radio hung. But as his fingers brushed the plastic, there was a soft "thunk". He blinked, and was suddenly hit with electricity. He stood there; shaking violently for a few seconds then fell to the floor as a crumpled heap. Slinging the gun onto his back, Sam stood and went to the fallen men. Lifting each of the listless bodies up, one at the time, he lumbered to the red and white bedroom, where he hid them in a dark corner.

Crouching by the window, his hand to his ear, he spoke once more.

"The camp's in Montreal."

"I hope you like poutine."


	2. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

It was one hell of a Terrorist relay group. They were in fact one large group, but they operated in three different organisations, each in its own area. Canada, Russia and the Middle East. There were camps in all three countries; each camp served its own "freedom fighters" and the splinters of the main terrorist group – those who stayed with the resident terrorist power, and those who travelled from place to place. In each area they worked with those in control, trading weapons, information and tradecraft. It was a highly evolved terrorist organisation, developed over decades. They dealt with each of the smaller groups separately, a part of each through their representatives, but of their own, so there were never any conflict of interests. And it kept them covered, on the move and constantly changing. It made them nearly impossible to track one hundred percent.

At the moment they were in Québec, with a group of Separatists. Helper had made sure everyone had a bumper sticker saying "Vive le Québec!" somewhere prominent on his or her personal items, like a suitcase or knapsack. She honestly couldn't care about the Separatists; in fact, couldn't understand their ideals, but alliances weren't always about agreeing with politics. They were about money, weapons and manpower. If someone was willing to die for your cause, you had better support them in theirs, agree or disagree.

A smile brightened her face as she looked around the forested camp. There had been a clearing created deep in the wood where targets were set up. No one ever came this far unless they were completely ass-backwards lost or were supposed to be there, so they had no worries about discharging weapons. There was a trail leading from the upper outskirts of base camp to the target area, so everyone was safe from friendly-fire as long as they stayed where they were supposed to. At camp they had a pavilion with picnic tables for mealtimes; at the one end of the pavilion was a buffet set-up where the food was cooked and served for the men and few women. The rest of the area was filled with cabins. It had been there so long that the ground in the middle of the circle of cabins was worn to dirt. Around the whole camp, threading through the woods, was a path on which they could run – did run – as a part of their training.

Mistress came up to Helper, black gun in her hand. She was turning it over gently, long, elegant fingers wrapping slowly around the hilt. Sitting beside her favourite soldier, she blessed her with a smile, pulled the slide of her gun back, let it snap into place and laid it on the picnic table.

"You have my computer?"

"Yes, Mistress. It's at the base in Montreal."

"Good." The woman nodded, her fine features alit sinisterly. "The General will be pleased."

Helper nodded solemnly. "I live to serve."

Back at the NSA, Lambert was pacing, a hand to his forehead, as Fisher sat calmly in a chair, booted feet up on a large table. Things weren't going exactly as they had hoped. Sam wasn't so worried; he'd just do what he was told. But his boss actually had to think of something, and he could only imagine what that must be like.

"Grim has nothing?" Sam wondered aloud.

"She said they have to be hidden somewhere in Québec – she doesn't understand the Montreal reference."

"Can't she figure it out?"

"How could a terrorist cell . . ." he trailed off, letting his question drop. They both knew that terrorist cells could work anywhere. And they had.

"But how could they have a camp," Fisher said, pushing the lost statement to the next level. That's what they were really wondering. A camp in Montreal? There had to be some mistake.

"Find out what's going on Fisher." Lambert walked over to the table and leaned over, hands gripping the edge. His eyes bore into those of the lounging man. Sam straightened up, crossing his arms.

"I'm listening."

"You will go to Montreal. Get the information you can."

"Don't you think this sort of assignment is better suited to someone else?"

"I'm not classifying someone else, and besides, this information will affect you later anyhow. May as well keep it with you."

Sam grunted, but didn't argue. Lambert had a point. He sat in thought for awhile, wondering how he would manage this assignment. He usually didn't go around asking people for information: he forced it from them or stole it. Then he wondered why this was so important. It wasn't as if these people were an immediate threat to US security. Not at the moment. There were probably more pressing matters he could be working on, like the terrorist group in the Middle East. There had been another holy war, or jihad, declared on America. There was usually one going on, but this was one of those where everyone wanted to take up arms and attack. It wasn't a quiet grumbling, but a massive roar. Shouldn't he be diffusing that situation, or even the one in Russia where there was an underground faction of the KGB wanting to destroy America for some reason or another. The animosity between the two countries was based on forgotten facts and long lost times. No one knew why Russia wanted America gone and America couldn't really figure out why they cared about Russia anymore, what with them getting attacked by other groups all the time Russia seemed pretty dormant. But now with the new terrorists in Russia, it was making it a much greater threat. With all this going on in the world, with these two places spawning major terrorist revival, why was he being sent on a hunt in a place where they spelled funny and had strange names for winter hats?

_"It's a touque Fisher. A touque. You'd do well to remember that, yankee."_

Lambert noticed a slight smirk twist his operative's mouth and he wondered what he was thinking about. It was the closest thing to a smile he'd seen in awhile. But it wasn't his place to question: that could alienate the man, which was the last thing Irving needed.

"Why Canada?" Fisher muttered, unfolding his arms and cracking his knuckles slowly. Sara told him weekly that he shouldn't do that, but he never stopped.

"Because they're more liberal."

"So are these actual Canadian terrorists," that was probably the first and last time he would ever use that phrase, "or are they from somewhere else and just stopping over in Canada?"

"That's what you're going to find out."

_But why, Lambert?__ Why?_ That was the burning question in Sam's mind even as he stood to get ready. He wouldn't question his assignment per se, but he just wanted to know. What was so important about this group of people, led by this "Mistress", who were spoke of as a pseudo-terrorist cell? They weren't even real terrorists, yet they were taking up his time. Just because they got away with a computer? There was definitely something he wasn't being told. But would Lambert keep this from him? Was he getting his orders on this from higher up? Questions flooded his mind as he walked out of the large room, following the corridors out of habit, to get ready for his trip.

In the government car, Coen drove as she hummed along to the radio. They were headed to the airport, where Sam would look and act like a regular tourist. His bags were packed, guns and battle-wear hidden under his clothes, which were on flat sheets that lifted out with his gear and tools hidden in compartments. His everyday-wear for travelling the city was perfectly normal: noticeable to all, making him completely undiscernible to anyone. Having dropped down into his usual seat, Fisher stared off blankly, his questions surfacing in full once more. They were more interesting than serious; whether they were answered or not didn't affect his work one whit. Still, it'd be nice to know exactly what he was doing. As he had learned in the past, however, that wasn't how it worked. He was told to jump, he jumped. And if he was told to kill a seemingly innocent person instead of jumping, well, he'd do that too. No one said it'd be enjoyable, but it had to be done.

"Have you ever been to Canada?" Coen asked, looking in the review mirror to him.

He glanced up, green eyes shining as life came back to him. Blinking away his mental postulating, he nodded slowly.

"A few times." Not caring to elaborate, and not being pressed for a reason for ever going to Canada, he didn't bother going any further.

"Did you enjoy it?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes."

"Is it much different across the boarder?"

"Somewhat."

Coen smiled slightly, knowing he wasn't the greatest conversationalist. In fact, she had done rather well, getting that much information out of him. It seemed as if his guard was down and he was trapped inside his mind. There was more going on behind his eyes at the moment than she had ever seen. He usually hid everything from view, but she supposed that sometimes there was just too much for anyone to hide. Once again he seemed lost in his thoughts, so she didn't press him with anymore questions. He would probably be curt with her anyway. Instead, she just concentrated on her driving.

The little café was indicative of these streets. Fashionable, filled with smokers and anything from actors to laypersons, it was full of life, cramped, and the perfect place to do top-secret work. The more people to see you, the less actually see you. Helper sat at a table outside, just off the street, her laptop where her plate should have been, her food on her left. She typed one-handed so she could eat. Even though she was studying, modifying and helping to write up the plans to destroy America, the ways of the West, she wasn't a robot. She still needed to eat. It was interesting how people thought of terrorists as automatons. They never slept, never loved, never got sick: they were always there, ready to knock on the door, to shoot up the so-called innocent people.

Well, perhaps some were like that. But she knew for a fact there were some Western soldiers like that as well. And plus, organisations like the CIA, FBI and NSA never slept. They were on twenty-four seven, never giving those they called terrorists a break. They were always working, spying, scheming. The terrorists didn't have the ability to be on call like the Americans could be. But the terrorists had passion for their beliefs, while in the West, it was just something you _had_ to believe. You were given no other choice but to defend your way of life, never thinking of the people it harmed.

Those thoughts running through Helper's mind, she added some notes to the General's speech. She would give it to Mistress, and she would give it to her husband. In a way, Helper was really third in charge. And considering the fact that this group was really spread over the world, that was quite a feat. While the Americans thought of going after the "Russian Terrorists" or the "Middle Eastern Terrorists" they didn't realise that they were one and the same. (Of course, no one every spoke about "Canadian Terrorists" or even "Central American Terrorists").

"La Sangre de la Libertad" was the main terrorist group. That was the core organisation, based in Central America. From there spawned the groups in Russia, the Middle East, and Canada. Each spawning group was connected to the area's terrorist organisations, but they were really just part of the core. They each learned new things, scratching backs in anticipation for when their own got itchy. And it provided cover. The three groups were thought to be separate, and the core wasn't even known to exist.

It was a beautiful set up. Her sandwich was absolutely delicious. She ordered another, along with a refill of Pepsi. Licking her fingers, she started typing, making the keys slimy with mayonnaise and saliva. Taking the napkin from under her plate, she carefully wiped the keyboard down; then she wiped her hands off. She stared at everything she had written, added in her conclusion and suddenly realised; she had been working up to this for years. Now it was going to happen. She didn't know when, but very soon. Soon the world would tremble before the true global power. One who had stayed hidden, used the most powerful terrorist groups to its own advantage, made them their own; they would strike America and the West down.

They would be victorious.

Fisher pulled out an ancient book from his suitcase. He was standing in his brightly lit hotel room, the furnishings only slightly shabby. Never expecting much from his government, he was somewhat surprised at the nice area he had been put up in. Not that it mattered as he was here to do work, not sightsee and be comfortable, still, it would be nice to relax even for an hour. That's when he found the book tucked in a side pocket as he was unpacking; a old, worn, dog eared book. It had either been put there strategically by someone, or he had forgot it the last time he had unpacked this bag. Flipping through it, he decided to re-read it for the thousandth time, when a picture fluttered out of it to the floor. Stooping over, he picked it up and examined it. Those had been good times. That had been the only brat from the CIA he had ever enjoyed teaching. He had even grown fond of her.

Tucking the picture away, he didn't bother with the pain welling up. There wasn't a point to it. Emotions just ran you down, wrecked you from the inside out. The only acceptable emotion was the love for your own child. Whatever had happened to that grinning woman in the picture was beyond him. Some said she was MIA, others said KIA. Still some others, the ones more susceptible to conspiracy theories, said that she was neither, but kept under tight guard by the CIA, doing ultra-top-secret work. That one tickled Fisher's funny bone, because if there had been "ultra-top-secret work" he would have been in on it.

A slow sigh escaped him as he sat slowly on the bed, then stretched out. Lifting the book up, he began reading, although he wasn't really taking in the words. As his eyes scanned over the groupings of letters, he saw them, but none registered. Instead his thoughts swam as his eyes automatically went over the same area of the page five times as he attempted to read it. His so-called mission was on his mind. How was he going to find the information he needed in a city of civilians? Ah well, he'd figure something out.

Awhile later, Fisher glanced at the little clock on the bedside table. His brows rose slightly as he noticed he had been reading for too long. Though he had given himself an hour to relax, he had taken more than that. Two and half hours to be exact. It seemed that his brain really _had_ settled down when he told it to. Swinging his legs off the bed, he put the book aside and stood, rubbing his temples. Where he would go, he had no idea. But he had to do something. There was a much better chance of finding his enemies by actually going outside and scouting the area, asking questions, rather than laying inside, mooning over what to do. He stood, hands dropping and walked to the door. Pulling on a pair of shoes, he decided against a coat. Although it was a bit cool for him, it wasn't that bad out, and the sun was beating warmly so he figured he would be fine. Reaching for the doorknob, he pulled it open and checked the hall quickly, out of habit. Then, striding out, he headed for the outdoors.

A woman in a summery black dress practically flowed into the chair at the small table. There were people bustling all around, on the sidewalk, through the streets. Lunchtime was finishing and most of the pedestrians were heading back to work. They were part of their own world, passing by the relative calm of the café, on parade for those who had no obvious rush to their lives. Separate from those resting, they shouted to friends to hurry up, or muttered apologies to strangers that they bumped. Cars honked as people j-walked, trying to get to work on time. All and all, it seemed an average day.

The crust less sandwich that had been rising to her mouth now lowered slightly. Blue-grey eyes lifted from the laptop, to the woman perched on the chair beside her. Helper then stuffed the sandwich point in her mouth and continued to write, eyes still locked on Mistress.

"You're always working."

"I have to get this done," Helper said, mouth full, as she neared the end of her writing. Mistress smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling somewhat.

"Is it so urgent that you must work through lunch?"

"Safest place to work," was the mumbled response. She took a sip of Pepsi and glanced back at her leader. "It's going to happen soon and I want all our ducks to be in a row."

"Are you so sure?"

A frown darkened the young woman's face. She was relatively pretty when smiling, but her frowns made her look almost fierce.

"The Americans still think we're nothing but a stupid, wannabe terrorist group. We have to hit before they figure out otherwise. The General has to present his speech, our core has to emerge, and then WHAM!" she smacked her left hand with her right, "the little group that was thought to be nothing turns out to be America's downfall." She cleared her throat and took another sip of pop. "It can't happen any other way," she grumbled, looking around. Luckily in the after-lunch din no one heard her.

Mistress nodded. "It hasn't been easy keeping the image of a blundering cell unworthy of any assignments, I'll grant you that."

"Exactly. Our time is coming soon according to how all these things are nearing completion and such, which is good, because I don't know how much longer the charade could be kept up."

An angry look flickered across Mistress's features as she got up to leave. "It will keep up as long as I need it to."

Helper nodded quickly, not wanting to anger her leader, knowing what sort of trouble that lead to. She hadn't meant the comment as an insult; it wasn't that Mistress was unable keep the image they had. It was just in the nature of things for the truth to eventually come out. Especially when dealing with many people who were all eagerly awaiting the same ends.

"Come," Mistress said, chin up as she slid on a pair of shiny black sunglasses. "We're going shopping. Put that damn computer away."

"Yes, Mistress."

The lunch crowds had dispersed by the time Fisher got out onto the sun-warmed street. He rather liked this weather and felt calm and tranquil for the first time in a long time. Hands in his pockets, he just walked, looking around, hoping he was acting like a tourist enough to be ignored. Every so often he'd stop and stare into stores, pretending to window shop. He even found an information booth and got some pamphlets on the area. Well, his cover was at least somewhat established. He hadn't done this sort of work in so bloody long that he feared he might actually be caught. Wandering around and pretty much getting himself lost, Sam decided it'd probably be best if he took a rest. Just a short break and he'd be back to actively doing nothing. Stopping at a café, he decided to take it up. It was the nooks and the places with atmosphere you wanted to go to, he remembered. Unfortunately, one thing he didn't remember was his crash course in French. It was almost scary, going to a French Canadian and not being able to speak the language, with all the language laws banning English. But he found the hostess to be really nice, and she spoke good enough English – once he tried speaking French and couldn't get very far. She took pity on Fisher and sat him down at a nice table outside. At least he had tried to speak French; if he hadn't things could have been different indeed.

All he ordered was a simple lunch with a glass of juice. His mind was too busy to bother with complicated food. In his briefing Grim said it was suspected that the pseudo-terrorist group was working with extremist Separatists. Both of them were somewhat confused as to what Canadian politics had to do with the rest of the world, but orders were orders. They didn't know why their respective talents were being wasted on some Canadian housekeeping, but Fisher still planned on finding out. Taking the hint from the information given earlier, he decided to start asking about the Separatist movement. When the hostess, doubling as waitress for the patio area, returned to his table, he asked her about it. At first she was taken aback but he had a ready excuse. He knew nearly nothing of Canada and was just interested in what most Francophones thought. The hostess gave him nothing much, just sundry information. The Separatists wanted to get away from Canada, they thought things were unfair; she didn't agree with them, especially since most of the land belonged to the Aboriginals, who didn't want to leave. If Québec were to separate, most of the province would stay with Canada anyway.

Not exactly what he was looking for, but he thanked her, gave her a normal tip and left with an interesting piece of trivia, but nothing more. He left, walking at a moderate gait, hands stuffed back into his pockets. What now? He could wander around and hope to find some Separatists, but would that really bear fruit? It would take months for him to undermine a group well enough to be able to join the extremists. There was no other way to get the information. It wasn't like they were handing out information on their terrorist groups.

Returning to his hotel, feeling extraordinarily disappointed in himself, Fisher took a short shower then contacted Lambert. There had to be _something_ to do, to find out information. He was sick of asking why he was doing this in the first place; he just wanted it over with. And now he had been presented with the problem of getting information and he wanted to successfully complete it, damn it!

"Lambert?" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Fisher? Just a minute." He left Sam in curious silence for slightly longer than a minute, but before he could comment on it, Irving was back.

"There's been a development. Don't move until we have this sorted out." Lambert was out and Sam was left with a puzzled expression. The wall he was staring at wasn't relinquishing any answers, but he wouldn't let his mind drift to what sort of developments there had been. How the hell had their been developments? There wasn't even anything happening. He forced all thoughts from his mind, took a few deep breaths, and cleared himself.

He would find out soon enough. That had to tide him.

===========================================

I thought in the game as Fisher grabbed someone he pulled his pistol out then? I'll check it all out later, when I'm not feeling so lazy :P

WG


	3. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

The trees rustled gently in the early-morning breeze, brightening sun slowly making its way through the leaves. Long shadows cast from the cabins kept the area cool, but that didn't matter as the men had just come back from their run. A few were huffing and puffing; they were the newest recruits into the cell. They didn't complain though having learned very fast not to complain, especially to the older men. Fear and pride drove the green boys on, wanting to show their mettle, and much too afraid to not do so. Around them, the others were talking amongst themselves and to the camp leader. Their voices were kept at mutters so they wouldn't travel, wondering why they were waiting to continue. The leader just knew that they were waiting for the Mistress, and didn't know how long she would be.

Jerome, a stately man of five foot ten with short-cropped black hair and large, dark eyes, glanced around, taking in the sight of his men. He was, of course, the leader of this group, and his job was to keep them in order and to run the drills. As well it was partially up to him to instil the passion and drive they needed for this work. The world called them terrorists, but they were really just fighting for their rights and freedoms. In future years, the world would see them as _liberators._ They were fighting for freedom with the blood of their veins. His men would not fail the General.

Over the sound of leaves brushing together and large branches creaking, there was the sound of an engine. It was barely discernible from the normal background noise of the forest, but Jerome could tell that it was getting closer. Nearly no one could get through the forest; there was a main road but it was makeshift and didn't lead to the camp. For those who were regulars at the camp, however, there was a trail of their own, snaked out through years of traversing the woods. It was possible for those who knew the forest and knew her well to get through.

While they were waiting for Mistress to arrive, Jerome ordered his men to sit at the pavilion and clean their weapons. A clean gun was a ready gun. Some of them grumbled; others went eagerly loving their guns perhaps a bit too much, but most were opinionless. They just did what they were told without question, because there was obviously a reason. Why did they need to know what it was? In the wind the white canvas over the hunched figures buckled and rippled, the metal supports into the ground trembling slightly. The men themselves tried to ignore the wind and set their minds on the task they were given.

As the sound of the engine got moderately louder, the camp leader walked the worn paths of his camp, hands clasped behind his back. Men had walked there so often that the area where the cabins were situated was almost completely worn down to dirt. A few blades of grass poked up here and there, but over time they too would be gone. It was a safe area here; no one usually wandered this deep into the woods, and if someone did, they were usually hunters. They were never any problem to take care of.

Around the cabins and along the thin trail to the target range the long green brush wavered in the breeze. The sun was rising higher, the shadows shortening. More heat shone into the camp, barely coming over the tips of the trees instead of alongside them. Still many of the leaves shone gold and dripped with the morning dew, but Jerome knew this place well. He knew the signs of the slowly moving sun, of the gently progressing day.

Gears were shifting down as the jeep slowed and bounced its way through the last bit of forest. By the guard hut at what they had designated the entrance of the camp, the front of a dark jeep came through, followed by the rest of the body. Legs in black jeans were hanging off the side, crossing and uncrossing in an annoyed manner. Jerome knew only one person that rode the jeep like that and walked over to greet the Mistress who was exiting from the passenger side like a civilised person. Helper, on the other hand, slid off the back, yammering angrily into a phone, unfazed by the rough ride from the base in Montreal to the camp. Instead she was alternating between speaking and shouting Russian and as she did so, looked quite incensed.

After greeting his female leader appropriately Jerome went to Helper and spread his arms welcomingly.

"Helper, 'ow wonderful it is to see you back," he said, a grin on his dirt- and greasepaint-smudged, but handsome face. She glanced up at him from her conversation which seemed to be totally engrossing her and waved him away. Turning her back on him, she continued to speak in the other language, giving orders and making demands. Jerome ignored the warm feeling filling him from the belly up at the sight of her, and also the slight twinge of pain at her rebuff. He returned to the Mistress, showing her the new boys, barely men, from afar. A thin-lipped smirk and she nodded.

The sound of boots and a military stomp sounded behind them, the crunching of sandy dirt approaching ever closer. There was the snap of a cellphone closing and the sharpness of someone standing at ready. Helper stood there, beside Mistress and Jerome, waiting. Jerome couldn't help but notice that her eyes were as cold and icy blue as always. A stark contrast to how her body could sometimes be. Shoving aside memory and need, he nodded to her. All he got in return was a little twitch of the eye.

"Well, I certainly hope that your men are ready," Mistress stated in a rather breathy voice. "Because if they aren't," her voice twisted and started down a path no one dared venture, "I _will_ make them pay."

Jerome gave her a sweet smile. "My lady, they are of course ready." His voice was thick with a French accent, his green eyes twinkling happily. He knew he was amazingly lucky to have a man with ideas so similar to his Separatists joining with him so he knew to never displease the Mistress. The General's mind was fresh and brilliant; encompassing all those whom wanted freedom. He showed them how they could take it in each of their countries and have it for themselves. He helped them; they helped him.

He heard a snort and realised it was Helper. She looked at the men working at the pavilion with a critical eye, then stormed over. Her hands were clasped behind her back, as was habit from training; her black t-shirt tucked into her black jeans, boots tied up around her shins. Coming up beside a man, she took his weapon from him and checked it over, eyes narrowed, mouth in a slight sneer. Jerome watched patiently with Mistress who almost looked delighted as Helper randomly checked each of the men, smacking them around when they didn't meet the General's expectations. She was like a pet to the Mistress, Jerome thought, nothing more and nothing less. She had no true authority, but because she was petted and fed and doted on, she had a say in things. It would have sickened him, but he had got to try out that pet himself, so he really didn't care what she was, as long as he got some. Besides, if her life was for the Mistress, body guard and personal computer geek, then what did it matter if she was able to use her expertise to further Québec's agenda, even if she didn't have the rank to do so?

Reapproaching her leaders, Helper clasped her hands behind her back and looked at them with blank eyes.

"Most seem to be fine," she relented. "He wasn't lying, Mistress."

She smiled at her helper. "Good. I would so hate to have someone lie to me."

A bitter grin spread slowly across Helpers face, an eager sparkle for the kill reaching her eyes. "It would be a shame," she said, not sounding displeased by it one whit. "I mean, I wouldn't want to have to _kill_ someone for you, Mistress."

"Oh of course not!" Mistress bantered back with an equally wicked smile. "Now, tell me who you were yelling at on the phone."

"I will later," she scowled, staring pointedly at Jerome. He raised his hands in a defensive gesture, not wanting any part of this. It was their business, not his.

Mistress looked around the camp, still smiling. "I will speak to Helper in your cabin. Take the men to the firing range. They must get their aim up. And then take them through the course; I don't want any of them to be jumpy. If they cannot kill in any circumstance then I don't want them here."

He nodded and went to his men, shouting for them to follow him, giving orders as they went. Helper's eyes went to Mistress's as Jerome strode to the path leading to the firing range and disappeared down it, swallowed by the trees. The gathering of men slowly filtered through, eventually disappearing with him. Mistress walked leisurely with her bodyguard towards the first cabin to the left of the entrance of the camp. It looked no different from the others outwardly, but they knew it was Jerome's even if it had no identifying markers. Mounting the wooden porch, it creaking underfoot, Helper frowned deeply.

"Incompetence. They can't even fix some bloody stairs so what the fuck makes them think they can fix a country?"

"We're betting on that incompetence," Mistress said with a smile that was much too sweet, "because if they were any smarter, they'd be asking more questions."

"Instead of merely accepting," Helper mulled with a thoughtful tone, voice drifting off as her finger went to her chin. She gazed up at the sky, tapping her chin a few times in consideration.

Opening the green metal door, Mistress's eyes settled into a cruel warmth. "Think of that later, Helper. You have a phone conversation to explain to me."

_Why the fuck didn't you learn Russian,_ Helper thought to herself as she stepped forward and held the door open, hand near the hinges. Her leader went through and sat in the camp leader's worn black leather chair, the woman nearly camouflaging into it. The answer to Helper's question, of course, was that Mistress herself was pampered. She was quite skilled at her work, and loved what she did make no mistake, but there was much she didn't need to do herself. Although she enjoyed the kill, it wasn't her job to dirty her hands with someone else's blood, at least not directly. Her husband would have had a few things to say about that at least. She had other people to mete out her will; all she needed to do was say a few words. Men were indebted to her through her husband's words and through her "personal assistant's" body. It was amazing what allegiance men would swear just to sleep with someone, especially when already ensnared by the rhetoric of a man claiming to fight _for them_ and only for them. Why should she do anything herself when she had others at her beck and call, to do them for her? Was it prudent for her to waste her own time learning other languages when it could be someone else's job? She had other things to worry about, like keeping the men in line. She was too feminine to do that on her own though; sometimes men had these funny ideas that they were stronger than she was, so Helper was her enforcer.

That's where all Helper's rights came from. She was the bodyguard, the thug, and the whore. She kept the control, so of course she would be treated differently. Plus, she had education, languages a part of that package, so she was a great help. When the men stepped over the line of authority, Helper beat them back and Mistress made their lives hell. It was a wonderful duo.

Twirling a blue pen in her fingers, a talent Helper hadn't been able to master herself, Mistress gave her a lazy look.

"Well? What's going on?"

Helper grabbed a solitary chair from a small round table and dragged it over the floorboards to the heavy desk. She sat backwards in it, arms resting on the back.

"The boys are getting edgy."

"Our Russian men?"

Giving a slight nod, Helper wondered how she could explain it without pissing Mistress off or blowing it out of proportion. The men were just trying to get more out of everything, calling a few bluffs that were frighteningly accurate, but guesses that were refuted nonetheless.

"Well?"

Helper raised an eyebrow. "They want to know why 'they aren't at the top of our list'."

Mistress scowled, tossing the pen down onto the desk as she leaned back in the swivel chair and crossed her legs.

"Tell them they are, damn it," she said after a moment.

"I did. They want more weapons. And more men."

"Then recruit more."

Not so sure of that, Helper asked slowly, "Don't you think, Mistress, with all due respect, ma'am," – another difference between the two women, Helper was always addressed as "sir" – "don't you think that er, someone should speak to The General? Taking men out of established areas could create ripples, disrupt things . . . Make people question."

Shifting her body weight and changing the angle of her hips in the seat, Mistress put her right elbow on the armrest. She smiled, batting her long eyelashes, full lips curving in an affectionate smile.

"Recruit more men. Beat them to near death if you have to, to get them to follow my husband. Give them weapons and send them off to Russia. I don't care if they die, I just want those motherfuckers to be mollified over there."

Lowering her arms, Helper ran her fingers idly along the bars making up the back of the chair. She thought for a moment. The faction of the KGB they dealt with was getting fidgety, and they were the closest thing to a government _La Sangre de la Libertad _worked with, so they wanted to keep them as happy as possible.

Mistress watched her soldier thinking. The consternation of the woman's face was almost amusing.

"What exactly was said on the phone?"

Her eyes lifted to the woman swathed in black, lounging in a black leather chair. It was so fitting.

"It's obvious we don't trust them," she said, eyes blank and nearly crossed, her voice in a monotone as she pulled up her conversation and paraphrased, "they need more men and more weapons, more money if possible. But the first two are most important." Her fingers curled around the bars of the chair as she leaned forward slightly. "They're questioning out intent; they say they need more."

It wasn't exactly the news Mistress wanted to hear, but she was glad she had someone who would tell the truth rather than brown-nose. A yes-man would get you killed while a truth-teller would let you fix a problem.

"Give them what they want," Mistress sighed, picking up the blue pen to fiddle with once more, "I already said that. More men, more weapons. Recruit them soon. We _need _these people."

"Yes, Mistress."

Even the bumpy ride couldn't stop Helper from doing her work. She didn't bother trying to tame her now wild hair: Jerome had wanted his "play time" and she hadn't a choice but to allow it and pretend to enjoy every damn moment. Instead, she just let the wind whip it into a bigger frenzy. Even though the front seat was more comfortable than sitting out the side in the back of the Jeep, it still wasn't the most pleasant of trips. It seemed though that Helper didn't even notice the bumps and jerks as they traversed wood. Her head was bowed, lips moving in silent thought as she typed on her laptop, balanced on her knees. It swayed and shifted, but after a few years of less-than-perfect locals, she had learned to deal with minor imperfections.

Although never from the men. If the men weren't as good as she wanted them to be, they felt her wrath. And sometimes, just sometimes, she drove them too hard. Eyes squinted hard at the flat monitor she dared it to give her information she wouldn't like. Pulling up a spreadsheet, she tried to determine where all the weapons were spread out. She needed to be able to filter some off for the blasted Russians. Mistress was right; if they weren't mollified there could be trouble. With a sigh, she came to the conclusion that only the base south had extra guns. She didn't know how eager the General would be to give up some of his precious arms, but there really wasn't a choice in the matter. And men . . . well, she'd just have to work on recruiting now, wouldn't she?

The Russians had good reason to be fidgety. _La Sangre de la Libertad_ was using them, though they didn't know it. But they were wondering if they were as important as the General had made them out to be. The men sent over to fight for them seemed a little too vehement for people who weren't Russian, people who didn't understand the politics of their land. Perhaps it wasn't so much suspicion as curiosity. Helper tried to soothe them, saying that the General spoke for everyone fighting for their freedom for everyone battling their way to liberty, and so of course his men would fight passionately for them. It was their way. They were all brothers, struggling against the tyranny of Western and American thought, weren't they?

Though this was true, they still wanted something out of it. Wanted to know that they were really the General's "brothers". After all, if they needed men and weapons, their "friends" and "family" should be the first to help, right? So they made their demands, which were first met with anger, then heated compliance. Accusations were thrown back and forth, leaving both sides tense.

Could the Russians trust them now? But if they were really being used, wouldn't _La Sangre de la Libertad_ be more eager for peace and to quickly give into every whim, to keep them on their side? They thought that they were now being paranoid, but nonetheless, they would be wary for some time to come. At least until the war with the USA. Once that started, well, even enemies would band up momentarily to defeat the wicked superpower. Until that time came though, they would wait for the extra guns and men to arrive, if they weren't just empty promises to keep them silent for just awhile longer.

===================================================================  
The squrrel comment was supposed to be an inside joke and suchness -.- And I don't know what was wrong with my spelling, but granted, this hasn't been edited near enough. I need a beta reader. Perhaps I should put that on its own.

_Need a beta_

There we go.


	4. Chapter IV

**Chapter IV**

The room was pitch black, curtains drawn against the moon. Her hands were clamped behind her back as she paced, computer screen blank, empty. The time was nearing and she didn't know what to do. It was almost the moment of truth, and she was starting to get opening-night jitters. Bumping into her dresser she hobbled over to her bed and turned on a lamp. Next time she was going to pace, she'd have a light on. For some reason her bed, usually comforting, seemed cold and useless. Her fear, and the adrenaline pumping through her, forced all drowsiness from her body. Would it be Showtime soon? How much longer would the General wait to make his declaration of war on the US?

The warriors, the army, they were all nearing perfection. It was frightening how good they were, all those boys in camouflage or black, able to do tricks that would make North American trained solders gawk. She was impressed, but again, scared. All this preparation would be over soon and they would be locked in lethal combat. Would any countries help them? Or would everyone flock to the United States as they did so often.

Pulling her feet up off the floor, Helper drew her knees to her chest. Resting her chin atop her jeans, her arms locked around her shins, she stared off blankly. She wanted to help in some way, help in the immediate. She knew though, that once this started, she would be near useless. Hopefully the Mistress and General had grown to like her enough that they wouldn't need to kill her. But she knew so much information; in fact, most of the information was her own. Would they get rid of such a source? It could happen. If getting rid of her would be a more prudent action, it would be carried out, whether they liked it or not.

Why was she thinking like this? It was the fear; it had to be. She was trying to buck up to the fact that she could die anytime in the near future. By the hands of her leaders, friendly fire, training accident, but most likely, by an enemy soldier.

Now _that_ possibility was frightening.

Mistress sat across from her husband, looking thoughtful. He was cleaning his gun with leisurely movements, adoring his weaponry as always.

"Is it all sorted out?"

He nodded, sliding the clip back into the gun. He relished the sound it made as it hit home, locked in the steely grasp. His dark brown eyes went to her light brown. A smile curled his mouth as he stood, tucking the gun into his belt. Stepping assuredly to his wife, he knelt before her, taking her hands, and gave her a swift kiss.

"Of course it's sorted out," he said in an accented voice.

"You shouldn't have come."

"I had to." Lifting himself up, he sat with her on the plush couch. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, his body warm, but his eyes ice cold. They were blank as he spoke. "This is very important. I will be returning to my men soon, so do not worry, Sandra." Tipping her face up to look at him, he smiled banefully. "But I had to see with my own eyes. Our hold here is as strong as reported: your army even stronger. I couldn't believe it. I had to come."

Sandra snorted. "Don't tell me you believed all that talk about my people being a pseudo-terrorist group and incapable of any sort of organised attack?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "But I just had to make sure that there were no embellishments. And I must say, I'm rather impressed. These men will integrate quite well with everyone else. Who knew they had it in them?"

Not replying, but giving a weak smile in reply, Mistress just sat there. She hadn't expected to see him until the war had already started. But here he was, impressed with her work. Well, Helper had definitely had a hand in it. She felt the excitement thudding through her on her pulse, the fact that soon they would be destroying the oppressor of the world. Power was indeed a great aphrodisiac. She felt dizzy with the strength flooding her and as she looked up at her husband, the symbol of power for all their people, she truly knew what love was.

It had been hours of restless waiting and now it was entering the wee hours of the morning. Fisher hadn't been able to sleep, tossing and turning and only managing a nap. He wanted to know what this development was, and he wanted to know _now._ Patience was a virtue he had learned long ago, but that didn't make him any less eager. Reaching for his book to pass the time, Lambert suddenly chimed in.

"Fisher."

"Good to hear your voice," Sam said, his voice a rough rumble.

"Our friends at the CIA decided to share some things with us."

"Wonderful. But I always thought they were more of the miserly type."

"They had no choice."

Looking around the sparse room, Fisher got up and went to the kitchenette. Fixing himself a sandwich and grabbing a can of Sprite, he cracked it open and took a long gulp as his boss continued to speak.

"They learned that we were working this cell –"

"Lambert," Fisher interrupted, putting his pop down and reaching into the little fridge for some yogurt. He rummaged through a drawer behind him for a spoon; "Can you first answer something."

Irving went quiet knowing it was more of a demand than a question.

"Why are we so worried about these guys? What do you know, or what does the CIA know, that makes them so important?"

"They aren't telling us much."

Spooning some of the yogurt into his mouth, Sam walked around, growling, "Why was I sent out here?"

"They're more important than we thought."

"Damn it Irving, stop beating around the bush. Just tell me."

"You don't need to know."

_For God's sake,_ Fisher thought, finishing off the yogurt cup with gusto and throwing it with the spoon into the sink. He went for his sandwich. "Then tell me what you can."

"The CIA have had an operative deep inside the terrorists we have you after."

"Is this a Soth situation?" Fisher asked, remembering the events of the previous year.

"Shouldn't be. It seems that they're getting a shitload of information from them right now. It's all scary stuff, and it's implicating a lot more then some pseudo-terrorist group. They fooled us."

Sam went back into the main room area and pulled the curtain aside, peeking out. He looked down into the damp street, a light rain having ended only moments ago. The streetlights were on, casting gold circles on the sidewalks and road. "Fooled us how?" he asked through a mouthful of turkey on rye, skip the mustard.

"God damn it man, are you eating?!"

He swallowed. "No."

"They made us think of them as being weak. A nothing group. However, they're part of a much larger group."

"We figured that one – they're some sort of faction, aren't they."

"They all are."

Furrowing his brow, Fisher took another bite of his sandwich. "All?"

"Russia, the Middle East, Canada, everyone," elaborating only slightly to drive his point home. "Those terrorist groups are all working with the same group. Really, they're all the same organisation now."

"Good God. What's the connection?"

"Our friends haven't told us that much yet. This is a lot deeper than we first though Fisher. I was able to get a vague description of where the training camp is, before they cut me off. Coen will be dropping by to take you. You're gonna be on your own, Fisher. If the terrorists detect you before I get co-operation and permission from the CIA, the mission's over. As of now, you do not exist. Get suited up. Information's on your OPSAT."

Chucking the rest of his sandwich into the garbage, Fisher sighed unhappily and went to his bed. Some cache of information that had been. Grabbing his suitcase, he opened it and lifted out the flat of clothing on either side. Underneath, stored away, were his suit and his weapons. Quickly he got dressed, sat on the edge of his bed and checked his OPSAT.

There was a note from Grim, answering a question that had started to develop:

"The camp's in the deep woods of Québec, further north. It seems that the meeting place and living area for the heads of the Canadian chapter are in Montreal: not everyone at each base seems to know where the training camps are. They usually only know about the hideouts. Lambert isn't worrying about that now, he wants you to get to the training camp and get as much information. The mole said everything is at the camp, including that all-important computer, so that's where we're heading.

"The CIA said that the computer can really be used by anyone. The information on it is used and read by different people. There was no more explanation on that titbit because we were cut off from anymore information soon after.

"This smells a little fishy to me, but I'm not going to argue it. Be careful out there, I've heard that these guys can be brutal. Grim."

The forest had to be exceptionally old. Here the trees grew thick and tall, making passage through them by vehicle (at least where they were) impossible. There were dirt and gravel roads carved through the trees, but that was a bit too obvious for Fisher. They had to make their own path, which didn't lead that far. Only a short way into the wood and Coen had to stop and let Sam out.

"I'll be around. Be careful Fisher."

He nodded, used to her words of warning by now, and started into the darker woods. The moonlight had a harder time penetrating through the thick canopy of leaves and needles here than out where Coen had been. Silence assaulted his ears as he waded through brush and plant life. The smell of nature wafted around him, fresh and heady at the same time. Strangely it was an almost empowering scent, sweet and uplifting. He continued, the smell stronger where he broke through fresh soil or crushed a budding plant. Staying quiet was hard work, but that's what he was paid for. Crouching down by a group of trees, he consulted his OPSAT once again. He was to finish his previous mission: get the computer. If the CIA wasn't going to tell them everything, they would get the information some way else, and that some way else was called Sam Fisher. He also noted that there was to be no lethal force and he couldn't trigger one alarm. He was curious about that. Why couldn't anyone die? They were known terrorists.

"Lambert, where's my fifth freedom?"

"There's a CIA agent in there and Canada is a friendly country. Stay low, stay quiet, and above all, holster your weapon."

Fisher got the hint. Nodding slowly to himself, he could understand where his bosses and the big shots in the NSA and government were coming from. Walking on, he put on his night vision to scour the area. Then he put on his thermal just to see if there were any signs of habitation. From where he was, he couldn't see anything, so back on with the night vision. He kept going forward, working his way quietly through the trees, trying to find this base, having no idea if he was going the right way. Hoping to God he hadn't been sent out in the wrong area, he was mildly surprised when he stepped on what looked like a trail. It curled around from the left and went to the right, twisting up through the trees. He started creeping on it, going to the right, following it. Everything had to lead somewhere.

Helper was crouched down at the table inside the small shack. There was a radio on the table, the table taking up half the place, and a chair. It was somewhat like a guard tower, usually without the guard and not so much a tower. But the idea was there. She set up her computer and began typing, cursing the bright screen. There was no one alive who couldn't tell the glow of a computer or TV from a dark room. It had that obvious unreal cast to it. Luckily everyone in camp was bustling around, training, getting ready for upcoming war so they didn't pay mind to the strange light emanating from the guard-hut. The General had _actually _been there and had stirred the men into a fighting frenzy. Their passion for their cause, for their work, had never been at that level. It was as if he poured blood into a tank of piranhas, left them for a few hours, then tossed in a corpse. They were going wild and were nearly foaming at the mouth, crying for the blood of the oppressors from the West. He was one great orator and had instilled so much in the men that they wouldn't even _question_ what they were doing, or what they were asked to do. For them death was no longer a concept. It was welcomed for the glory of "La Sangre de la Libertad".

Now Mistress was giving orders and overseeing things, not even noticing that Helper was missing. Well, not exactly missing, just off doing something she shouldn't have been. If she was caught, it was an automatic bullet in the back of the head, no questions. She really didn't have much of a choice though. Plus, no one would find it strange if she were typing on a computer. The crouching down thing might be strange, but she was sure she could come up with an excuse. However, if she couldn't come up with something, and they figured her out, she'd get to see what her brains looked like.

Looking around, trying to peer out the windows above her, her fingers never stopped moving. It was black out, but there were a few lights on poles, brightening the area up slightly, at least where she was positioned. She knew that the cabins were brightly lit. Sighing, she kept working, pushing herself past her exhaustion and dread. A sudden cracking made her jump. It seemed slightly darker out. Even though the time on her laptop said the sun would be up soon, the trees prevented any pre-morning glow from making it to camp. It'd be hours before the sun would make a difference to night within the forest. And it got darker yet again, with that strange cracking sound.

Then the light just outside her window went out, again with that cracking. She froze, recognising the sound now. Someone was shooting out the lights. Who the hell would be doing that? Lowering the top of her portable computer so whoever was outside wouldn't see her, she slowly moved into the corner of the tiny cabin. She shivered, breathing shaky as she forced herself to stay calm. There was no reason for anyone to come in here. If she was safe from the warriors stumbling in on her, then she was safe from this new attacker.

Sam glanced around the camp, darkened greatly with the help of his gun. He watched as men circled the broken lights, wondering what the hell had happened. A beautiful ageing woman in black stormed out to them, crossing her arms. She seemed to be demanding of them what had happened; Fisher was too far away to hear clearly. Moving in closer, guessing that they weren't going to move out any further and find him, he tried to listen to what they were saying. All he caught was the last bit, said by the woman:

"It was probably just an electrical surge or something. Get more lights in there."

The men nodded at her and hustled off to do her bidding. Sam stepped back and watched as they disappeared into buildings or the trees. How he was going to find this computer and not get caught was beyond him.

Walking deliberately through the camp, he hid in shadow as he tucked his optical cable under each of the doors. He couldn't see anything in them. Nothing that looked like a computer to his eye. There wasn't much time before the place would be bustling with men running back and forth, which would make hiding more difficult; it was hard to be undetected when you were being jostled this way and that.

Turning around he checked the area behind him, to make sure no one was there. Then he surveyed the area and went back to the tree line between two cabins. He kneeled there, deciding what to do. If he entered each cabin and searched, that would probably yield better results, as it was more thorough. It also meant that he could get caught and killed much easier. All it would take was one man opening a cabin door and flicking on the lights. If he was quick enough though, he could have a cabin searched and be out of there without anyone being the wiser. Perhaps it wouldn't be thorough, but how exact did one have to be to find a stupid computer? They were usually right there, in front of your face, not tucked away.

Sneaking to the front of a cabin, he picked the lock of the door. It would have been nicer if the cabins had back doors as well, but that would have been asking too much. The door swung open rather quietly and he flicked down the night vision. Working fast, he looked over the whole cabin and couldn't find a computer. This process was repeated with the other cabins.

Sitting back on his heels after a few frantic minutes, hiding in the tree line, Sam wiped his brow. He couldn't figure this out. Had the CIA lied about the computer? Was this a red herring? Did they know where it really was, and were they going to get it for themselves now? He had no idea where to look; he just couldn't find a damn computer in any of the cabins.

Men had returned with new lights and he knew he was screwed. He had failed on locating the computer, hadn't seen hide nor tail of the agent who was supposedly there: who knew, the CIA had probably lied about that as well. The agent and the computer were most likely long gone: Third Echelon only getting old, previously used information.

Sighing gently, he straightened his headgear, watching as the lights were replaced. The area was flooded with yellowed light once more. He didn't want to report back to Lambert that he couldn't find the computer, but he didn't know what else to do. Shoot out the lights again? That would have everyone on a full-out search for something that was very wrong. There was no way all the lights could blow out again. Every guard would be suspecting a visitor. It could even alarm them.

So redestroying the lights was out of the question for now. There had to be another way.

"Lambert?" he muttered, glancing furtively around him.

"Fisher?"

"Is the agent still here?"

"As far as we know."

"I'm having some difficulty in locating him."

"Keep looking Fisher. Get that damn computer."

Taking a deep breath, Sam made his way to the entrance of the base, via the trees behind the cabins. He kept the bulky wooden forms in his line of sight so he knew where he was heading, and so he wouldn't get lost in the forest.

The lights having come back on, Helper sighed with relief and opened her laptop once again. She resumed scanning all the data and plans she had typed up or hacked. It was all very good information to her reasoning, and began sending it off. Because everyone had been worried about the lights, and would now be slightly paranoid with them, she knew that no one would be worrying about her. That had been a mixed blessing, but she wondered where the assailant went. For she knew the sound of lights being shot, and those lights had _not_ been put out by a surge of electricity. Or whatever other excuse may have come up to try and explain the phenomenon. Naturally no one wanted to believe that someone else could be there, wreaking havoc, so it had to have some sort of normal explanation.

Hearing footsteps behind her, Helper quickly got up in the chair and made it look like she was working diligently. The door opened and a hand rested on her shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

Helper froze as Mistress's hard voice filled the hut. Forcing herself to relax, she put on a smirk and said lightly, "Working, Mistress. What else?"

"Working? Still?"

She nodded, not bothering to look up at Mistress. The long fingers curled around her shoulder and squeezed gently.

"Take your time." She swept her long black hair back with her free hand, a force of habit even with no men around, which then rested on her cocked hip. "The men were wondering if you wanted to go shoot with them."

Helper smiled slightly and blew a lock of dirty blonde hair out of her eyes. Her own hair, matted and greasy, was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few strands had escaped. That was a relief. Why would Mistress suspect her of anything, anyway?

"When we're back in Montreal, we should really get your hair dyed. It looks horrible." Mistress picked at Helper's hair, letting it fall from her fingers repeatedly.

"I'm a thinker first, a fighter second and a woman third, Mistress," she said automatically, making her leader grin into the darkness.

"Of course. I'll leave you to it then – shall I tell the boys you've declined their offer?"

"Tell them I'll make it up to them later. I'll bring them a sack full of heads. That ought to appease their bloodlust."

"Hm. One lust appeased at least." Chuckling, Sandra left the little shack, glad that her computer geek had found a safe place to hide out while the men went wild. Helper smiled slightly and hummed to herself as she brought up the real stuff she was working on. The door shut slowly in Mistress's wake, but never shut completely. Not noticing this anomaly, Helper was just glad that the lights were back on, that she hadn't been caught and that everything seemed to be going as closely to plan as possible.

Fisher had stayed back when the refined woman in black had gone to the little hut he had somehow missed. She opened the door and barely even moved inside. Within the hut he could see a bench or table lining the far wall. It had a window looking out to the trees, again on the far side, which was all he could really see. The woman was standing in the way, filling most of the vantage point. There wasn't much he could do about it though; he just had to wait it out. He could see that she was talking, but couldn't hear the words, and couldn't see to whom it was directed. For all he knew it could have been into a microphone or a telephone or even to herself. After what seemed to be a short exchange, she looked like she was laughing as she left. The door started to close and Fisher made up his mind.

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I'm still searching for a beta, so if anyone would like to offer their services, it would be greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoyed. 


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